Percival Everett - Big Picture - Stories

“Kemp!” Lawrence yelled, his eyes still on the bull’s neck. “Kemp!”

“Yeah?” Kemp answered.

“What now?!”

There was no answer.

Ten minutes passed. Lawrence had time to pick out faces in the crowd, to nod to the familiar ones, but they were too terrified to notice. Connie was at the fence now, holding onto her sister.

He thought once that he felt the bull move, but there had been nothing, no dust rising from any hoof, no lingering ripple of a twitched muscle.

Lawrence took a long slow breath and as he let it out he loosened his grip slightly and the bull took a lateral step. The crowd sucked in wind collectively. Lawrence heard it and his fingers tightened again. A clown ran toward the bull and veered away quickly. The clown stopped and stood by a barrel, his chest heaving. Lawrence listened to the man panting. He swallowed. Another couple of minutes passed. Patient crowd, he thought. He also felt that he had had just about enough. In one quick effort he released the rope and pushed himself up and off the bull, rolling onto the hard ground and bolting away a few strides. He was still in the ring and the animal was still motionless, just looking forward. He walked around the animal, studied its back, and noticed just how big it really was, the muscles of the shoulders, the rump. He looked at the clown’s face and saw his fear. He moved wide and came to stand by the barrel with the man. The bull’s face was scary to see, blank, his eyes glazed over, unlike the dumb expression of a cow.

Lawrence turned to observe the people in the bleachers. They were still silent, standing mostly, and many had moved down to the fence. Lawrence stepped away from the barrel and stood in front of the bull. He was directly in front, not five feet away and the bull just stayed there, staring straight through him. He waved his arms, then he yelled. He yelled the bull’s name. He yelled for it to do something. Finally, he turned his back on the animal and walked slowly, leisurely away toward the fence. His senses fused. He was ready for the snorting, for the sound of a stamping hoof or the beating of all the hooves against the stiff ground. Nothing. He reached the fence and climbed over. Sitting there, he looked back at the bull.

A cowboy swung open the gate at the far end of the ring and the bull trotted through it. People began to quietly leave the stands. The concession booth was already closed. Cars and trucks lined up to make the turn out onto the highway. The team-roping event had not come up and wouldn’t. The hands were calmly clearing out the stock and moving it to the pens in back. Even the animals had become hushed, even sedate, their movements measured, methodical, deliberate.

Kemp came and slapped an arm over Lawrence’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Lawrence nodded, then turned to look back at the empty ring. The dust had settled.

The Infirmary was at the edge of town, rustic and old-looking in spite of its newness. Lawrence nursed his second beer, sitting across a booth table from Kemp and Hank Fussey. Fussey was a large man, taking up more than half of the seat, pushing Kemp up against the wall. Lawrence thought to offer Kemp a seat on his side so that he might have some breathing room, but he knew the man would decline. Kemp wanted to see Lawrence Miller’s face, to see the man’s eyes.

“I ain’t never been so scared in all my life,” Fussey said, shaking his big head. “I thought you were a dead man. Sure as I’m sitting here.”

“It was truly something,” Kemp said.

Lawrence shook his head and drank from his mug of beer. He saw Connie Flitner come through the door. He smiled and nodded to her. She came over and said hello. Lawrence got up and asked her if she wanted to sit with them. She slid across the green vinyl seat. Lawrence looked to find Kemp smiling and offering a covert nod.

Lawrence caught a passing barmaid and ordered a beer for Connie. He sat down and cleared his throat. “Lots of excitement today,” he said.

“He’s a brave man,” Kemp said.

“Kemp, the bull didn’t do shit.” Lawrence glanced over at Connie. “Excuse me.”

“I’ve heard the word shit before, Lawrence Miller. Been known to use it on occasion.”

Lawrence studied his beer, tracing his finger about the rim of the mug. He stopped when he saw Fussey mimicking his action.

“Truly something,” Fussey said.

The barmaid brought Connie’s beer and left. Connie thanked Lawrence and took a sip. Her right hand was on the seat and had moved across the vinyl to Lawrence’s hand. The backs of their fingers touched gently. Lawrence didn’t take her hand, but he didn’t move his away. He smiled at her.

Dean Phillips walked by and leaned over the table. “How are you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Doin’ good,” Kemp said.

Phillips slapped a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder and looked at him. “How about you?”

Lawrence nodded.

Phillips gave his shoulder a squeeze and walked away to the table in the back where some of the older guys sat.

The booth was quiet for a while. Lawrence guessed that Connie, Fussey, and Kemp were thinking about Phillips’s son. Lawrence was wondering why the man had a sudden interest in his well-being.

“Everybody’s saying it’s the damnedest thing they ever saw,” Fussey said, his eyes locked on Lawrence. His pupils were covered with the shine of a few beers.

“Are you going to eat me or something?” Lawrence asked Fussey. “I mean, stop looking at me like that.”

“What was it like?” Fussey asked.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Come on, Lawrence,” Fussey pleaded.

“How did it feel?” Kemp asked, his voice low, his face leaning over the table.

Lawrence looked at the two men across from him and then at Connie at his side. She too was eager for some kind of answer. He drained his mug and set it down with a heavy fist for effect and leaned back into the seat. He looked at the people near the door and at the bar. Some were staring at him. All were aware of him. As always. “I felt …” He stopped.

“Yeah,” said Fussey.

“I felt horny.”

Kemp coughed out a laugh.

“Get outta here,” Fussey said.

“No, really,” Lawrence said. He was holding Connie’s hand now.

Fussey was open-mouthed and wide-eyed. “You felt horny. You mean like …”

“Why do you think it took me so long to jump off, Hank?” Fussey was shaking his head. Kemp was beginning to believe the story.

Lawrence was looking right at Fussey’s eyes. “Really,” he said.

Lawrence left the Infirmary alone after telling Connie he needed to drive and think. He was surprised at how stiff his body felt; the muscles of his thighs still felt cramped from having squeezed the bull so tight for so long. He fell in behind the wheel of his pickup and drove out of the dirt parking lot and back toward the arena. Connie had really wanted to be with him, but he wasn’t ready.

He brought his truck to a stop at the stock pens and got out. The bulls lowed a bit, the broncs nayed and whinnied, and the calves bawled. The sounds were quiet sounds that belonged there. Music. He walked between pens and the horses stamped the ground nervously. The he saw the red bull, almost glowing under the moonlight. No, the animal did not have dull bovine eyes, but eyes almost like a cat’s. He leaned on the fence and studied the bull.

“What is it with you?” Lawrence asked.

The bull stared at him, unmoving.

“I could have ridden you.”

The bull took a step backward.

“Did you see their faces?” Lawrence laughed softly, shaking his head. “They were more scared than I was.” Lawrence looked west at the field behind the pens and the stand of cottonwoods at the edge, the hills cut against the sky beyond it all. He walked the perimeter of the pen to the gate at back that opened to the west and the expanse of pasture. He swung out the gate. “Well, go on, crazy. Beat it. Hightail it! Hiya, get outta here!” Lawrence came around the gate and into the open.